


Stationary

by nameless_constellation



Category: yuri on ice
Genre: Also Viktor is bi here, M/M, The many things I write when I'm tried, Victor is Viktor here, Viktor is a con man, Viktor may also be manipulative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:34:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8649895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_constellation/pseuds/nameless_constellation
Summary: Breaking through the steam, Viktor could see a slim figure slither through the narrow doorway of the bathroom, gracefully lifting up a gun. Yuri aimed it at Viktor, "Did you call again?"
 
Heavily inspired by Tokyo Station





	

The shochu was warmed up perfectly, burning Viktor's tongue as he gulped it down frantically. Winter had fallen upon Japan, and without his coat, Viktor was cold. He could still feel the warmth sloshing around in his belly as he staggered to the nearest pay phone, the apples of his cheeks flushed red. A lady answered the call.

"Are you lonely?"

"...not particularly."

"How about tomorrow night, at the roof of the blocks with neon signs?"

The faint beeps of the phone answered him. Viktor sighed. Not everything goes well, not every love runs smooth, he though with a chuckle. For the briefest second, he considered going over to the Polish bar across the street, they had strongest shots in town and waitresses of every variety, sweet or acidic, sharp-tongued or demure. But Viktor decided he couldn't tolerate the disgusting jukebox they had, falling apart at its seams and swiftly headed home.

Viktor stank so much of alcohol when he finally reached home that he stripped himself and threw himself into a warm bath. Steam waffle around his silvery hair as he sank himself further into the water. Here, he could forget the tapping sounds of leather shoes, the broken sounds strung together trying to disguise itself as Japanese and the soft underlying accent that was too foreign. Cracking his neck, Viktor forced his head over the surface of the tub and let out a soft gasp for air.

Breaking through the steam, Viktor could see a slim figure slither through the narrow doorway of the bathroom, gracefully lifting up a gun. Yuri aimed it at Viktor, "Did you call again?"

"Who?"

"You...you know who"

"There's no need for this cyclical conversation we always have, dear."

"T...them.." He jerked the gun at Viktor for emphasis, though his arm trembled slightly.

The Japanese could mould their faces to be as flat as the rice paper they favoured so much, eyes two slits carved into a hard paper mask. Yuri kept a tight grasp on his poker face, as Viktor admired silently, the way small beads of sweat worked their way over his brow. "If we were married, I wouldn't care who you kept. But... I am your pet...I could ..." He gesticulated at Viktor's chest , then to his temple.

Viktor rubbed his temples, he must be getting old. Suicide was for the young, double suicide for the young and fashionable.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" He asked softly, making sure to let his words catch onto a gentle lisp.

"No." His hand is starting to tremble even harder.

"I can bet you a hundred yen, my little piglet, that you can empty that gun and still miss me." 

Yuri visibly shrinks.

"Is it worth that little? Your life?" 

This, he nearly shrieks. But he couldn't, Viktor observed, his voice had been caught in his throat and his eyes flickered to Yuri's sweat slicked Adam's apple, fluttering up and down. Decisively, he slowly raised himself out of his bath. 

"Yuri" He whispers softly, allowing his Russian accent to latch onto every syllabus, his lisp slipping through his lips like a snake. 

His gun was now pointed to the pristine white tiles, his arms were shaking more than ever. Yuri's knees buckled and he fell to the ground in a slump. Viktor took his steps lightly, wrapping his arms around Yuri's slender frame, drawing him into his embrace. 

"I'm not leaving, my little piglet. You know I'm not one to pack my bags and leave like that. Don't you trust me?" 

He made sure to lean in, to push all the words and letters into Yuri's ear. He made sure to lower his voice, make it as husky as possible, made sure to let his warm breath fall all over Yuri's earlobe. He made sure his warm lips brushed soft over Yuri's cold earlobe. He could hear the protests in Yuri's head.

"But you're a con man."

I know Yuri, I know. He whispers gently, as a mother would to a child, hands gliding over Yuri's sleeping form. Although they had the heater on, he slept in such a thin yukata, its loose form pooling around Yuri's small frame. Viktor let his hands roam, stroking his face, tip toeing down his pale neck, tracing the way his body dips down at his slim waist. He gives strokes the curve of his back, feeling Yuri's protruding backbones, fingering his bony hips, gently massaging his soft thighs. As if committing his memories Yuri's shape and smoothness, like admiring a beautiful porcelain vase. 

 

And the next morning he leaves nothing but an empty spot next to Yuri and the small gun in the bathtub.

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by Tokyo Station, written by Martin Cruz Smith. Except I guess Yuri isn't exactly a Michiko. Not beta'd in anyway and I'm super tired from today.


End file.
